Break the Silence
by SlimReaper
Summary: Set immediately after Drift: Empire of Stone. Ratchet came to bring Drift home to the Lost Light after Rodimus confessed the Overlord disaster wasn't Drift's fault after all. Turns out also Ratchet had an ulterior motive for finding him. Ratchet/Drift, brief vague references to past noncon/dubcon, references to past shady things done as Deadlock, NSFW, well that escalated quickly.
1. In Charge

**Alias is not behaving right now (if you ask Optimus, she never does... heh) and this has been in my head ever since the end of Drift:EoS, so why not get it out? This is not the same world as Alias and First Contact. I'll probably regret saying this, but this will be short (by my standards anyway)-I'm only planning on 2 chapters. (My muse is laughing at me and reminding me that I estimated Alias would be about 20 chapters... shaddup, Muse. *****picturing Whirl singing "No one _caaaares_ what you have to say!"*)**

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Ratchet was silent as he and Drift wandered the wreckage of Gigatron's base in search of a way off the planet.

Not just quiet. _Silent._ For all the complaining Ratchet had done from the instant he'd tracked Drift down, despite the words he'd spoken beside the canyon that was the final resting place of that dreadful stone army–_Then come back, if not as an Autobot, as a friend–_now Ratchet didn't seem to have a single thing to say to the swordsmech. Drift followed the medic over the broken ground and didn't try to break the silence himself. He briefly considered confidently stating that Primus would provide for them, but until Drift knew what he'd done to shut the other mech down like this, he didn't quite dare.

And right now, he wasn't entirely sure that Primus _would _provide. Drift and Primus weren't exactly on speaking terms lately.

Not that a lack of faith would usually be a problem when it came to blurting out sayings. Most of his over-the-top spiritual proclamations were mostly to provoke Ratchet into glaring and snapping at him anyway. Anything to get the medic to pay attention, to look his way. Ever since Rodion, Drift had been chasing the affirmation that he was worth noticing.

Well, he certainly wasn't getting any of that right now.

If he didn't know that the only reason Ratchet was even on this world right now was that he'd left the _Lost Light_ to track Drift down–something Drift had never, ever expected _anyone_ would do, much less Ratchet!–he might've thought the medic had completely forgotten he existed.

They finally found an undamaged shuttle that two mechs could fly. It had certainly seen better days, was perhaps in even worse repair than the one Drift had appropriated for his _not-suicidal-really-no-matter-what-Ratchet-said_ trek through the worst parts of the galaxy to liberate the oppressed, but the scans and checks showed that it was still spaceworthy. Even more miraculous, it was actually fully fueled. They ran all the safety checks again, just to be sure, double-checking each other without a word, standard Autobot procedure, comforting in its familiarity.

That comfort vanished when they finished and Ratchet gestured at the hatch release panel. _It's a Decepticon ship, you idiot, it's more likely to open for you than for me,_ Drift interpreted that gesture, and he had to fight not to bristle as he hurried forward to lay his palm against the scanner.

He couldn't exactly argue that, though. Not after the last two days.

It wasn't until they were inside the small vessel that Ratchet finally said something, although he still didn't look at Drift. "I'll set a course for the _Lost Light_." That was all, a single matter-of-fact sentence, neither warm nor cold, just information, and the medic ducked through the slightly too-short door to the cockpit before Drift had a chance to reply.

Drift just stood there as the hatch behind him sealed and locked. He could only see the side of Ratchet's helm and one shoulder from here, occasionally catching a glimpse of a single red hand moving over the controls as the medic programmed the shuttle's autopilot. Drift vented in a slow sigh and searched out a storage locker large enough to hold his swords–he felt exposed without them, but wearing blades during blast-off was, to use one of Ratchet's words, contraindicated. Even sheathed, they were much too dangerous.

And he wouldn't risk damaging Wing's Great Sword if the launch got violent.

When his swords were safely locked away, he turned and watched Ratchet finish entering data into the autopilot. He'd taken the pilot's seat without asking even though Drift had more flying experience than the medic; he should really be the one to pilot the shuttle, but whatever odd mood had taken Ratchet left the swordsmech reluctant to contradict him.

_Maybe he's just worn out from the fighting,_ he thought, but he'd seen Ratchet after battles before. In the adrenaline let-down, the medic usually bitched even more than normal, which was saying something. Actually, listening to him complaining about the lack of proper supplies to repair his companions' wounds, berating them for being so stupid in battle and letting themselves be hurt, lashing them with sarcasm, was paradoxically comforting to the Autobots who knew him. When Ratchet growled complaints as he put them back together again, they knew the danger was behind them.

But Drift was absolutely certain that this danger was behind them, and Ratchet was still as quiet as Bumblebee had been after taking a blast from Megatron's fusion cannon to the vocalizer.

That triggered a new thought, one that unfroze Drift's pedes from the deck and sent him marching across the shuttle to duck into the cockpit and stop beside Ratchet, fists planted on his hips as he demanded, "Are you wounded?"

Ratchet's hands didn't leave the controls even though a glance showed Drift that the program was complete, and he _still_ didn't look at Drift. Even Ratchet's EM field gave him nothing to work with, retracted so close that it was very nearly tucked beneath his own armor, revealing absolutely nothing. "What?" he asked distractedly, and Drift had officially Had Enough now.

He kicked Ratchet's chair around so the medic was _forced _to stop ignoring him, grabbed the armrests and leaned over him so there was nowhere else for his gaze to go and finally succeeded in getting Ratchet to look at him. "You heard me. Are. You. Wounded?" Drift growled, invading the medic's personal space just to drive home the point and punctuating it with an angry surge from his own EM field. "Is that what this is? You're pissed that I got you hurt and you're trying to keep me from noticing you're hiding some kind of injury?"

"Of course I'm not, and if I was, I wouldn't hide it. That kind of stupid slag gets mechs killed. I'm a medic; I know better," Ratchet snapped, and Drift relaxed a little with relief. He could put up with Ratchet being cranky a hell of a lot better than he could handle the medic being injured. Anyone who spent any time at all around Ratchet built up a tolerance to his famous temper–it was that or never visit the med bay at all, and Drift was a front-line fighter. That meant he'd had plenty of exposure to the Hatchet's surly disposition, and that kind of thing slid in one audial and out the other now.

Seeing Ratchet hurt, though… Drift had no defenses against that. Thank Primus that wasn't what was going on now.

But that still didn't answer the question of why Ratchet was apparently trying to pretend that Drift didn't exist. "Then what is this?" Drift asked, the worried anger leaving his voice to be replaced by confusion and, very, very carefully, not a single trace of pain.

"What is what?" Ratchet shot back, but instead of shoving Drift away and demanding that he get out of his face, Ratchet's gaze skittered away, his blue optics seeking something, _anything_ else to lock onto besides Drift's. It was so out-of-character that it was like a slap in the face. "I'm tired, Drift, let's just get off this damned rock."

"You know what? Fine," Drift sighed. If Ratchet wanted to give him the silent treatment, so be it. He was tired and hungry and filthy and sore, and that didn't even touch on the tangled mess of emotions he was doing his level best to ignore at the prospect of returning to the _Lost Light._ He wanted a cube of Energon and an hour in the washracks and at least three uninterrupted recharge cycles and some time to meditate and prepare himself to see the crew again, not necessarily in that order, and nowhere on that to-do list was _figure out why Ratchet's acting like he wishes he hadn't convinced me to come back with him. _

He pushed away from Ratchet's chair and flopped down into the copilot's seat. A touch of a button locked the launch restraints around him and a second one did the same for Ratchet, who let out a noise at the unexpected grab of straps snapping around his body that he would probably kill anyone for daring to call a squeak. Drift didn't even smile at it. "You want to go? Let's go." The instant he heard Ratchet's restraints click into place, he hit the launch switch.

The next few minutes were loud enough to drown out even the most awkward silence. The shuttle, while spaceworthy, was certainly not in optimal repair, and it rattled and squealed and groaned as though in pain as the big thrusters kicked them off the ground. Its two occupants shook violently along with it as it noisily fought to break free of the planet's gravity and Drift smiled for the first time since they'd found the shuttle. Lots of mechs hated liftoffs. That was when things went wrong, when the danger of space travel was at its peak, but Drift loved it. Once those main engines kicked on, there was absolutely nothing he could do to change what was going to happen. Launch or crash, life or death, it all rested in the hands of Primus. There was a certain freedom in that, a peace that came from having no choices to make, in knowing, just for a few moments, that his fate was not his to control.

Involuntarily, he glanced over at Ratchet. The medic's hands were clenched so hard around his armrests that Drift wouldn't be surprised to see dents when he let go. Ratchet clearly did not share his philosophical view of launches–well, of course he wouldn't. The medic prized control. Drift surprised both of them by reaching over and wrapping his fingers around Ratchet's wrist and squeezing. "She'll make it," he said above the roar of the engines. The medic didn't say anything back but his EM field, hidden all this time, gave the briefest flicker of nervousness and gratitude before shrinking away again.

Primus decided they would live this time. Weightlessness lifted Drift out of the seat as the planet released them and the gentle press of the restraints kept him from floating far, but only momentarily before the artificial gravity generator automatically kicked in. Drift let go of Ratchet's wrist and triggered the catch on his restraints. "I'm going to find a berth," he said, pushing up out of the seat and turning toward the exit. "If you feel like telling me what's eating at you, wake me up. Otherwise, I plan to plant my aft on the nearest horizontal surface and stay there until we get to the _Lost Light._"

To his surprise, Ratchet hurried to unfasten his own restraints and stand up, too. "Drift, wait," he said, reaching out and catching hold of the swordsmech's upper arm. Drift froze in place. It wasn't like Ratchet to grab another mech like that, not unless he thought they were about to collapse from some kind of injury, but it was really the urgency in the medic's tone that stopped him.

Drift stood there for a moment, waiting for Ratchet to add anything at the end of that, but _Drift, wait_ seemed to be all of it. He cycled his vents slowly and deliberately for patience and glanced back at the medic. "Waiting, as requested," he said, and it didn't escape his notice that Ratchet still hadn't let him go. "Still don't know why, though."

Ratchet was looking at him now, he realized in the next instant–looking at him like he couldn't look away if his life depended on it, optics fixed on Drift's with an intensity he had no clue how to interpret. The medic's lips moved in a mutter too quiet for Drift to hear clearly even from this close but he didn't have time to question it before Ratchet spoke again, louder this time. "Drift, I… I wasn't completely honest about why I came to find you," he admitted in a low tone that didn't entirely hide his nervousness.

That was unexpected enough to send a jolt through Drift. He jerked back, breaking Ratchet's hold and spinning to fully face him. "_What?_" he bit out, armor clamping down tight and fuel pump thudding just like it did when he was anticipating a fight. Realistically he knew that he could never fight Ratchet, but he'd never thought Ratchet would betray him like this, either. This time he couldn't keep the pain from his voice. "Exactly what part was a lie? That I'm welcome back? That they know I'm not responsible for Overlord? That we're going to the _Lost Light_ at all?"

Ratchet held up both hands. "No! Slag, that came out wrong. I didn't lie to you," he said hurriedly, stepping closer as if he planned to grab the swordsmech and stop him from bolting. "Everything I told you about the _Lost Light_ is true, all of it, I swear. That's not what I meant, not at all what I meant."

Drift tried to move back and restore the distance between them–being so close to Ratchet was a minefield of _want-to-touch/don't-be-stupid_ that he just didn't have the processor space to deal with right now–but the cockpit was too damn small and his back hit the bulkhead instead. Forcing the surge of battle-readiness and his unsettled emotions away as best he could, Drift straightened to his full height and spoke as slowly and calmly as he could manage. "Perhaps you'd like to start over and say what you actually _do_ mean this time."

"I–yes. Yes," Ratchet said, and relief flickered over his face for a moment before being replaced by tension again. "Start over. Yes. I… I can do that. Yes."

But he didn't. Drift was starting to get nervous all over again now. Ratchet acting unsure was not something he had ever seen before, and he wasn't really enjoying seeing it now. When several seconds passed and the medic still didn't speak or break eye contact, Drift sighed harshly and put his fists on his hips above his empty scabbards again. "You're really starting to freak me out. If it wasn't because of Rodimus telling the truth about Overlord, _why did you come find me?_"

Ratchet startled as if Drift's voice had shaken him out of some kind of trance. _Like he got lost staring into my optics,_ a little voice whispered in the back of his mind, and Drift firmly told it to shut up and go away. He had a lot of practice telling that little voice to shut up for impossible thoughts like that, and right now with the medic standing so close, that kind of thing was _not slagging helpful_. "Ratchet?" he prompted, wanting to get this over with so he could get out of this too-small space and try to find some kind of way to clear his head.

Ratchet closed his eyes briefly and pulled a deep vent into his intakes, looking for all the universe like he was bracing himself. When he finally met Drift's optics again, his shone with determination. "Because watching you walk off that ship and knowing that I'd been too much of a coward to do this even _once_ has been killing me," he said in what was very nearly a growl.

Drift scowled because that didn't explain anything but suddenly Ratchet was a whole lot closer, and those legendary hands were on him, one on Drift's waist, the other catching the hand he'd instinctively raised, holding him in a gentle grasp that immobilized the swordsmech as effectively as a full-body stasis net, and all he could do was watch in wide-opticed disbelief as Ratchet leaned down, mouth hovering over his long enough to whisper, "Just once, Drift, please let me do this once."

And then his lips were on Drift's, soft and impossible and maybe he'd hit his head in that fight and his processor module was leaking out his audial because this was a hallucination, it had to be. There was no way in the pit that Ratchet was really saying that he'd left the _Lost Light_ and hunted Drift across the galaxy just to _kiss him_.

But if this was a hallucination, it was a damn good one. Ratchet's lips moved over his so gently and his hands tightened and his exvents quickened and heated and his EM field bloomed to life when Drift didn't shove him away, bathing the swordsmech in a dizzyingly powerful wave of _desire_ and _longing_ and _yes_ that he wasn't sure he could have imagined even if he'd been trying. His vents ached and he belatedly gasped, and he didn't know if his head was spinning because of this impossible kiss or because he needed air.

Ratchet exploited that gasp immediately and slipped his glossa between Drift's parted lips, groaning deep in his chest as he deepened the kiss.

And Drift had to fight hard not to panic.

Drift was good in the berth and he knew it. His 'facing skills had been honed and perfected by far too many centuries of depending on them for his very survival. He had a repertoire of erotic tricks far beyond anything the medic was likely to have ever experienced. Drift knew he could give Ratchet the frag of his lifetime–Primus, he'd certainly imagined doing so often enough–and if he put his mind to it, he could almost guarantee him an overload so intense that his processor was knocked offline from it. At one time, he'd done it regularly. After all, it was so much easier to rob unconscious customers, and he didn't feel quite as guilty for doing so when he knew he'd thoroughly rocked their world.

But for all the techniques he'd mastered, both by force and by choice, what Drift had never truly learned how to do was kiss. He'd never regretted that before.

And in this moment, with Ratchet's glossa teasing the inner lining of his lips and _holy Primus _he'd never known his lips were so sensitive and Ratchet's body swaying closer and Ratchet's field sparking fire against his and Ratchet's groan of pleasure still echoing in his audials, Drift regretted his lack of knowledge bitterly because he didn't want Ratchet to stop but he didn't know how to encourage him to continue.

Praying harder than he ever had in his life that he wouldn't screw this up, Drift acted on instinct and touched the tip of his glossa to Ratchet's as he continued to tease Drift's lips. The effect it had on the medic was electric. Ratchet moaned and he released Drift's hand to cup his face instead, holding him exactly where he wanted him as the hand on his hip tightened and dragged him fully against the medic. Ratchet chased Drift's glossa with his own, sliding fully into his mouth now. Overwhelmed by so much sensation, Drift wasn't prepared for the surge of heat that rocked him when Ratchet's glossa caught his and boldly swept them together in an erotic tangle. He clutched Ratchet's shoulders hard as his knees went weak.

And as their bodies pressed together, he felt Ratchet trembling from head to toe.

_It _is _a hallucination,_ Drift thought again, his spark sinking this time because by the Well, he'd almost convinced himself that this was real. But Ratchet didn't tremble. The legendary Autobot CMO who had saved the life of every Prime since Nominus didn't shake. The fearsome Hatchet didn't quiver. Drift had once watched him perform emergency open-spark surgery on Optimus Prime on the battlefield during an aerial bombardment, while giving him an Energon transfusion from _his own body,_ without a trace of a shiver. He'd seen Ratchet face down Megatron's fusion cannon with only a standard-issue laser pistol in his utterly steady hand. There was absolutely no way that one kiss, especially not one as clumsy and untutored as Drift's, could rob Ratchet of his famous steadiness.

Well, if one of those stone warriors had cracked his head open and this was a hallucination, then by Primus, Drift was going to get everything out of it that he could before he woke up or died.

Throwing caution out the airlock, Drift locked his fingers behind Ratchet's neck and arched, molding his body to the medic's and stroking his glossa firmly against Ratchet's as though he actually had the slightest clue what the hell he was doing. And oh, the reaction he got was gorgeous–Ratchet's groan was muffled against Drift's mouth but that just meant it vibrated all the way through him when Ratchet wrapped his arm fully around Drift's waist and pulled their hips together hard. Ratchet's kiss grew almost desperate, hungry and deep and commanding, his glossa conquering Drift's mouth as his cooling fans roared and his field positively blazed with passion. He pushed his knee between Drift's and pulled him in tight, pinning him to the wall in a way that made Drift go weak all over. That only intensified when Ratchet's hand slid down from the nape of Drift's neck to explore Drift's body, caressing his aerodynamic chestplate, gliding further to the sleek plane of his abdomen, fingers stroking, kneading, claiming. And all the while, Ratchet kissed him like it was all that was keeping him alive and moaned into Drift's mouth and panted through his vents and _trembled._

Drift could hardly think for wanting, but for all his experience, he wasn't anywhere near as bold as Ratchet–he had faked desperate desire countless times, but he hardly knew how to act when he really _felt_ it. That familiar _want-to-touch_ was pounding in his brain and this time he didn't fight it. He'd heard Ratchet dismiss his own frame as merely a _box on wheels_ but Drift found the strength and purpose of him almost irrationally sexy. He'd spent so much time on the _Lost Light_ watching Ratchet and trying not to get caught devouring the medic with his gaze, and now that he had a chance to touch, he could hardly decide what to do first. Deadly black hands were almost hesitant as he stroked the Energon lines of Ratchet's throat, the temptingly smooth glass plate over the arrays of medical sensors in his chest, those broad, powerful shoulders, and the medic rewarded his caresses with a delicious symphony of sounds.

Drift wanted to concentrate on finding all the places that made Ratchet moan but Ratchet was being very, very distracting. His kisses never slowed as he slid his hand down Drift's thigh and caught beneath his knee. Ratchet pulled his leg up over his hip and Drift obediently hooked it around Ratchet's waist, dragging their closed panels together with enough force to make both of them shudder hard. Ratchet's fingers stroked the back of his knee, a place Drift had never considered a particularly erogenous zone, but something about that little stroke had him keening into Ratchet's mouth. He tightened his leg around the medic's waist and rocked against him, seeking some relief for the ache behind his panel. Ratchet broke the kiss for the first time to very nearly shout his name.

And then he went still, and didn't kiss him again.

Drift opened his eyes when Ratchet's hands stopped moving on his plating and found the medic staring down at him with such blatant hunger in his optics that it made his spark pulse, but he still didn't kiss Drift again. "What'd I do?" Drift rasped, wanting that mouth back on his but not sure enough to initiate the kiss himself until he knew why Ratchet had stopped. What had he been doing just now? He hadn't been paying the slightest mind to his kissing technique and maybe he'd bit him or drooled down his face or done something else disgusting without knowing it, and his spark froze with dread and shame. Damn it, even in a _hallucination_ he couldn't make this good enough to keep Ratchet's attention–

But Ratchet couldn't seem to tear his optics from his mouth and his cooling fans roared with blatant lust. Drift licked his lips nervously and Ratchet actually swayed on his feet, mouth dipping toward Drift's for a bare instant before he groaned and pressed his forehelm to Drift's instead. "I asked you for one kiss," Ratchet murmured, the words emerging hoarsely in a crackle of static and was his voice trembling, too? Surely not, but– "And I'm well over that limit. You better tell me exactly what I can have before I go too far."

The words were clear despite the static of Ratchet's arousal, but Drift still struggled to understand them through the haze of his own body's demands. They'd been heatedly making out for long enough that the planet was already growing small behind them and he still wasn't waking up on the battlefield or fading away to the Well, and even though he wasn't kissing Drift anymore, the heat of Ratchet's interface panel against his felt vividly real. More than that, Ratchet was still holding him tight and looking at him like he wanted to _devour_ him. Could Drift actually be awake and truly living this dream? "What do you want?" Drift heard himself ask as his hips moved without his conscious direction, rubbing their panels together. "_Ratchet,"_ he moaned, doing it again because it felt _amazing_.

Ratchet moaned too, but then he growled again and caught Drift's hips in his hands. "Stop that," he ordered a little desperately as he held Drift still and leaned back until their chestplates were separated by several inches of chilly air, "I need you to answer me, damn it."

Answer, what answer, had he asked something? Drift focused with difficulty and remembered–Ratchet wanted to know what he could have. The very idea that the medic wanted anything at all from him was almost enough to choke him. Spark spinning with arousal, Drift concentrated on making his reply understandable through the static clouding his vocalizer. "What do you want?" he repeated, hoping that whatever it was, more kissing would be a part of it.

Ratchet made a frustrated noise. He clearly wasn't getting the answer he wanted, but Drift didn't know what he was doing wrong or how he could make it any clearer–even if he hadn't been lusting over the medic for most of his life, after everything Ratchet had done for him, did the medic really think Drift would ever tell him no about anything? Maybe that was what he needed to hear, so Drift said, "You can do whatever you want to me, Ratchet."

Ratchet studied his face for a moment and whatever he saw there made his entire body go tense. "What I want is for you to pay attention for a minute and really listen to me," he finally said, and Drift had heard many responses when he'd offered a mech whatever they wanted from him, but that one was a first. Disappointment that no more kissing was going to be forthcoming mixed with frustration that he couldn't seem to entice Ratchet to keep going and he unwrapped his leg from the medic's waist, not trusting himself to speak.

It was clearly the right thing to do because Ratchet's tension eased–just a fraction, but Drift would take what he could get. "Everything that's happened between us before now, we're even, do you understand? Rodion, Delphi, all of it–you don't owe me a damn thing. I'm not calling in a debt. We're not doing this as some kind of _transaction._ We're here as equals." He caught the swordsmech's chin in his hand and said in the gentlest voice Drift had ever heard the medic use, "Do _you _want this to continue? If you don't, Drift, you can tell me no. If you don't want me, I'm asking you to _please_ tell me no."

Those words should have thrown coolant on the roaring blaze of Drift's arousal. He was well aware that Ratchet knew exactly what he'd done in his past–it had been more than obvious how Drift had kept himself alive when Orion Pax had brought him to the Dead End clinic where Ratchet had first saved his life. Bringing it up now, in this situation, should've shamed him. Should have made him want to shove Ratchet away and go find a place to hide from the humiliation of being reminded that he was nothing but a gutter trash buymech who could never be worthy of a distinguished and respectable mech like Ratchet.

But he didn't feel any of that.

Drift felt… grateful.

Yes, Ratchet knew what he'd done. Knew he'd sold himself more times than he could count and done things with strangers that he didn't want to think about. Knew that not all the services Megatron had demanded from him had been performed on a battlefield. Knew that he could give Ratchet whatever he wanted, _be_ whatever he wanted, because interfacing didn't have to mean anything to him.

And Ratchet was telling him plainly that this time, _he wanted it to._

Drift looked up at him in a kind of awe. "You really did come after me because you–you really came and found me to kiss me," he whispered, finally believing it even before the medic nodded.

"Yes," Ratchet said, his voice as quiet as Drift's. "I wanted that kiss and I took it and I didn't ask, and I should apologize for that but I won't because I'm not sorry." His face hardened as he took a determined vent and then completely released the swordsmech–hands off, body retreating, not pulling out of Drift's arms but initiating no contact beyond that. "But I'm not _taking_ anything else, Drift. What happens next is entirely up to you."

"What–up to me?" Drift echoed, hardly daring to believe his audials.

"Yes. You're in charge."

Drift stared at him, mouth going dry. He'd never seen the medic look so intense and the hunger he wasn't even trying to hide was revving Drift up almost as much as those kisses had. "What can I have?" he whispered, echoing Ratchet's own question.

And finally, _that_ was the right thing to say. The medic smiled, and that was rare and precious all by itself even without the words that followed it. "Everything. Nothing. Anything in between. Whatever you ask for, Drift, I'm going to say yes."

Drift's spark felt like it was going to surge right out of his chest. "Really?"

Ratchet nodded, still smiling and clearly understanding just how rare having control in this kind of situation had been in Drift's life. "You can ask me to let you go and never touch you again, and I will do it," Ratchet said. When Drift clutched at him and started to immediately protest that, the medic's optics narrowed and his smile went dangerous. "Or you could ask me to get on my knees right here and don't stop until you can't overload any more, and I'll very happily do that, too." Drift gaped at him–he'd never, ever imagined Ratchet would say such a thing–but his spike was a huge fan of that plan and throbbed insistently beneath its panel. When Ratchet saw the look on Drift's face, he grinned. "You don't believe me? Say it and find out."

_If this is a dream, I might just fall on my sword when I wake up,_ Drift thought, feeling drunk and breathless and dazzled by possibilities he had never allowed himself to ever hope would become reality, and all he had to do was ask. His processor nearly glitched with the influx of every fantasy he'd ever entertained about the medic, fantasies that had started four million years ago in Rodion when he'd awakened to see the ambulance standing over him, handsome and strong and capable and showing Drift the first true kindness and compassion he'd ever received. Was it any wonder he'd been smitten from that moment on?

_Whatever you ask for, Drift, I'm going to say yes. You're in charge._

And as erotic as the thought of the medic on his knees was, it didn't come anywhere close to the impact of those words. Anything he wanted… what _did _he want? For an endless moment, Drift couldn't even speak, but finally he pulled himself together enough to whisper, "Will you–will you kiss me like that some more?"

"Oh, Drift, with pleasure." Ratchet's field surged with relief and longing as he cupped Drift's face in his hands and bent closer, breathing the words against the swordsmech's lips. Drift closed his eyes as Ratchet kissed him again, long and slow and deep and perfect. He did his best to keep up his side, imitating what the medic did with lips and teeth and glossa, and apparently he wasn't as awful at it as he'd feared because Ratchet shuddered. "Drift," he moaned, and went back for more.

His name on Ratchet's lips was the sexiest thing Drift had ever heard in his life.

The kisses didn't stay slow and languid long. Ratchet showed no signs of stopping and reacted so beautifully to every hesitant stroke of his glossa, and Drift slowly grew more confident. Soon he'd almost entirely lost his nervousness and let himself just get lost in the pleasure that spread to overtake his entire body.

Wanting to make Ratchet feel as good as he did, Drift pulled back slightly to ask, "Can I touch you?"

Forget not trembling–Ratchet shuddered from head to toe as he whispered, "Yes, _please_," in a voice that was almost all static.

Drift let his hands wander as Ratchet's glossa plundered his mouth, feeling the strength of Ratchet's sturdy frame, learning the planes and angles of his body. His fingertips traced transformation seams in search of sensitive places and he thrilled when Ratchet groaned into the kiss with every one he found. He truly loved how vocal the medic was, especially the way he said Drift's name over and over between increasingly passionate kisses. He had been called many things by many mechs in situations like this, but very rarely his own name. His cooling fans roared in a futile effort to control his temperature, keeping pace with Ratchet's.

And best of all, Ratchet didn't try to push him to do anything more than this, didn't so much as move his hands from where they cradled Drift's face.

He respected Drift's boundaries.

Ratchet was making Drift hotter than he'd ever been in his entire life, but it was more than that. He made Drift feel _safe._

He rewarded Ratchet for it by redoubling his efforts to please him, and if there was one thing he was better at than violence, it was this. If the rumble of the ambulance's engines was anything to go by, Drift hadn't lost his touch at all. Ratchet's kisses were bordering on desperate now and Drift didn't want to lose a single glorious second of it by speaking again, so he reached up to grasp Ratchet's hands and dragged them to his chestplates in a silent invitation backed up with a welcoming, eager pulse of his EM field–_touch _me_, too_–before going back to his own explorations.

Ratchet wasted no time in taking him up on the offer and oh, those hands were just as talented at this as they were in the med bay.

And he was just as _thorough,_ too. Ratchet caressed his chest, mapping out every transformation seam, every place where a fingertip could slip between armor plates and tease the sensitive protoform beneath. Drift was whimpering before Ratchet had made it halfway down his chest, which made Ratchet growl with satisfaction while still not stopping for a single instant. By the time the medic's hands had reached his hips, Drift was glad of the wall at his back because he wasn't sure he could've stood without it.

What Ratchet was doing along the flexion joints of his hip armor was stealing all the strength from his legs. Drift had never even known there _were_ sensors there, much less ones that seemed directly wired straight to his interface arrays, and every flick of the medic's fingertips over them brought him closer to overload. "Ratchet!" he gasped, head dropping back and panting for breath as his entire body burned with charge. He had _never_ felt like this, ever.

"Yes." Ratchet's voice came from right beside his audial flare, gritty and dark and sexy as he pressed kisses along the hypersensitive metal and didn't stop what his fingers were doing for a second. "Anything you want. Yes."

There was only one thing Drift wanted and that was _more._ "This shuttle has to have a berth somewhere," he said, trying to match Ratchet's gravelly tone and missing by a mile when the medic's glossa licked a hot path all the way to the sharp tip of his _exquisitely_ sensitive audial flare. The wickedly thrilled surge of Ratchet's EM field seemed to indicate that the medic found it pretty sexy anyway. "Maybe, if you want to, we could find it."

Ratchet shuddered beneath his hands. "Yes," he groaned, and the longing in his voice sent shivers down Drift's spinal strut. He pulled back at last and met Drift's optics without trying to hide the raw desire in his gaze. _"Yes."_

Drift couldn't help it–he smiled up at Ratchet, unable to contain his happiness. Whatever happened next, this was by far the best moment of his entire life. "Then lead the way."

.

**I'm looking forward to the reviews! MWAH!**


	2. Anything You Like

Drift gazed up at him, optics wide and lips parted and so _fragging_ gorgeous that Ratchet could hardly think straight.

Actually, thinking had been relegated to the lowest level on his priority list for a while now. Who wanted to think when he was finally kissing Drift? And these weren't stolen kisses–these were willing, enthusiastic, passionate kisses that the swordsmech had clearly enjoyed just as much as Ratchet if his gasps and whimpers were anything to go by. Even his obvious inexperience was a turn-on. It meant that he was giving Ratchet something he'd given very few others. It meant that kissing Ratchet like this was special, this was new, this was something no one had taken from him and twisted and corrupted until it was more to be endured than enjoyed. And Drift _liked_ it, liked it enough that when Ratchet had offered him anything, it was the very first thing he'd asked for. The fierce surge of pride and joy that filled him at that request had almost overwhelmed Ratchet and he'd eagerly done as requested. Oh, kissing Drift was every bit as good as he'd dreamed it would be–no, frag that, it was _better_.

But right now that smile of his was in serious competition for the sexiest thing Ratchet had ever seen. Drift invited him to his berth and then _smiled_, smiled like all his best dreams were coming true, and if this was a dream, Ratchet never, ever wanted to awaken. "Then lead the way," the swordsmech said, and Ratchet could hardly think for wanting him.

Letting go of the speedster was truly difficult, especially after how long he'd been aching to get him into his arms like this, and that smile didn't help him find anything like self-control. Ratchet couldn't resist one more kiss first. Drift all but melted into him when their lips met and Ratchet forced himself to keep it short. _I can kiss him more in the berth,_ he reminded himself, his fans struggling to cope with the heat that thought produced. _I can kiss him _all over_ in the berth._

Ratchet pulled away with a deep groan at the thought of it even though he reminded himself not to assume anything. _Maybe we could find a berth _was a much different invitation than _lay me down and lick every inch of me and let's spend the next two days 'facing until we can't move_. He would only go as far as Drift let him. He truly hoped that the swordsmech had the same thing in mind that he did, but he would never push Drift for more than he was ready to give.

And standing here thinking about it wasn't going to get him any closer to having any of it. "Come on," the medic gritted, turning toward the exit with Drift's hand firmly caught in his. Drift laced his fingers between his as he followed. Ratchet had to inhale sharply to keep his equilibrium at the sensation of their fingers sliding together. It was a simple thing but somehow still so very intimate, and that was without even taking into account the sensitivity of a medic's hands. Ratchet quickened his pace and was pleased to note Drift stayed right on his heels.

The shuttle was small and it didn't take much searching to find the shuttle's single berthroom. Ratchet pulled Drift to the side of the berth and stopped there. He didn't want to–he _wanted_ to drag him onto the berth, cover that lithe, streamlined body with his, scatter kisses all over his plating and do his level best to make him scream, but Drift was still in charge and that meant what Ratchet wanted took a backseat. So he stopped there, urged Drift into his arms, and contented himself with more of those incredible kisses.

When he pulled away some time later, both of them were venting hard. He murmured against Drift's lips, "We found the berth. Now what?"

Drift answered by hooking one pede behind the medic's knee, planting his hands on Ratchet's shoulders, and shoving him backward to land on the berth.

Ratchet smiled fiercely and didn't fight it. He bounced on the soft surface as Drift followed with considerably more grace and dignity, and Ratchet couldn't tear his optics away from the sight of the swordsmech crawling onto the berth to settle above him. When Drift went still over him, hands beside his head, knees planted on either side of his hips, caging him with his body and grinning down at him, Ratchet thought he'd never seen anything hotter. "Surely you don't need a road map for this little trip," Drift teased as he raised one hand to trail his fingertips along Ratchet's chevron.

Ratchet's back nearly came off the bed–that chevron was _sensitive_, and from the look on Drift's face, he had long suspected it and having it confirmed thrilled him. He repeated the caress and Ratchet couldn't help it, he grabbed Drift's thighs and held on tight, needing to ground himself. Drift smiled, smug as the pit, and leaned down to run his glossa over the metal.

"_Frag!" _Ratchet's optics rolled back in his head and Drift chuckled low and pleased.

It sent the most distracting vibration through his chevron imaginable. _Primus,_ he had to say this now before Drift made him forget that words existed. Ratchet's first attempt at coherent speech dissolved into a moan as Drift's glossa played along the sharp edge of his chevron again, slow and hot and _Vector Sigma he's killing me here_, but Ratchet gritted his teeth and tried again.

"I don't need a map," Ratchet managed through a vocalizer that wanted to do nothing but spit static, "but I'd like to know if we're heading to the same destination." So far all they'd done was make out, and if that was all Drift wanted, Ratchet would somehow force his libido to behave.

Drift went still and finally pulled away. "Ratchet," he said, looking down at him and going unexpectedly serious, "I have wanted to get close to you for something like four _million_ years. If I have a chance to 'face with you now, there's no way I'm not grabbing that before you change your mind."

Ratchet groaned at the idea that this amazingly gorgeous mech had been carrying a torch for him for so long. That was the kind of revelation that had a way of wiping out all his higher processor functions. "No way in hell I'm changing my mind," he rasped, stroking those shapely thighs and kicking himself for not overcoming his fear of rejection and doing this much, much sooner. Then, remembering how Drift's eyes had gone wide when he'd offered to let him take the lead, Ratchet smiled slow and suggestive. "How do you want me?" he asked, both because he wanted Drift to know that he was still in charge and because it would be sexy as hell to hear him say what he wanted the medic to do to him.

Drift's optics widened just as Ratchet had hoped, his expression caught between desire and disbelief, but instead of answering, his gaze slid away and his field contracted. Ratchet felt the withdrawal in his body and field and instinctively wrapped his arms around the speedster, pulling him down for an embrace that was more comforting than sensual–he didn't know what he'd said wrong but he hated himself for stealing the happiness that had been saturating his EM projections only seconds ago.

Before he could kick himself too much for it, Drift finally answered. "I don't know," he whispered, what Ratchet could sense of his field still thick with desire but now tinged with something that felt a lot like shame. "I don't know what to tell you. I…"

Ratchet didn't need him to finish that sentence to know how it ended–interfacing had been a duty for so long that Drift hardly knew how to do it for actual pleasure. He thought his spark might shatter but pity was the last thing the swordsmech needed. "Lucky me, then," he said, forcing his tone to stay light. "I get to help you find out."

Drift glanced at him and seemed surprised to see him smiling, and his field hesitantly reached out again. Ratchet met the cautious touch with a determined wave of honest desire from his own field, and Drift finally ventured a smile again. "You're off to a good start with the kissing," he offered, and Ratchet could take a hint when he heard one. He reached up and pulled Drift into a long, deep kiss, and Vector Sigma, Drift was a dangerously quick study. The swordsmech wasn't the only one panting when Ratchet pulled away several long and very pleasant minutes later. "I'm open to more suggestions, should you think of any," Drift whispered against his mouth, and Ratchet could take that hint, too.

Drift was putting himself quite literally in Ratchet's hands, trusting him to make them both feel good.

For a moment, it was almost too much. Ratchet's head spun with all the things he wanted to do to Drift, a list of fantasies he'd spent far too long denying and trying to repress, and now that he was here, he hardly knew where to begin. "I'm sure I can come up with something," he murmured, and he caught Drift's laugh against his lips in another kiss.

That kiss turned into another, and another, and when Drift's hands started moving over him as he shifted restlessly atop Ratchet, the medic groaned deeply and savored the way Drift shivered in response. He couldn't help but notice Drift's reaction to every sound he made. Despite wholeheartedly kissing Ratchet back and exploring every part of the medic that he could reach, Drift was surprisingly restrained when it came to making any sounds himself. That made every little whimper or sigh Ratchet _did_ provoke that much more precious.

But Ratchet was greedy. He wanted _more_, and that earlier thought returned insistently. _I can kiss him _all over_ in the berth…_

Moving for the first time since Drift had shoved him onto his back, Ratchet caught Drift around the waist and rolled with him until their positions were reversed. The way Drift had been crouching over him now meant that Ratchet's body was pressed between his spread thighs, and that was enough to make his optics haze with desire. Drift clutched him tight and gasped at the abrupt change, but Ratchet didn't hesitate. He kissed his way down Drift's neck, nibbling at the delicate Energon lines and cables, tracing them with the tip of his glossa. Drift's fans spun higher, heat pouring off his frame as Ratchet took his time exploring Drift's throat. "Do you like this?" he murmured, as if he couldn't tell from the tension in Drift's body and the way he pressed his head against the berth, trying to arch and give Ratchet even more access.

One of Drift's hands slid up to toy with Ratchet's chevron again, sending heat dancing along his spinal strut. "Yes," Drift whispered, and the word came out satisfyingly breathless but Ratchet wanted him to moan it.

Ratchet moved again, sliding down Drift's body, so different from his own blocky frame, trailing kisses over the aerodynamic panels of his shoulders and chest. When he reached the bare spot at the center of Drift's chest where his Autobot symbol–and before that, the Decepticon one–had once adorned the place above his spark, he paused and nuzzled the metal. Then he flicked his glossa out and traced little nonsense patterns over his chest plates as his hands returned to Drift's hips. Ratchet teased his fingertips over those flexion seams and Drift whimpered, a little victory Ratchet savored. "Do you like this?" he whispered against his plating, kissing inexorably down Drift's body as his fingers traced his hip seams without ever once slipping inside.

"Oh Ratchet _yes_," Drift moaned low and gorgeous.

Oh, he did like it when Drift moaned his name like that. Ratchet finally let his fingers play over those hidden sensor bundles again and kissed down to Drift's abdomen as the swordsmech shuddered on the berth. Ratchet could feel the heat of his closed interface panels against his chest now, so close, so _close,_ but he didn't let himself rush. Every inch of Drift's abdomen received the same slow, thorough attention, the medic suckling the flexible mesh between his lips, savoring the taste of his lover and the anticipation of reaching his goal. His hands slid along Drift's hips, fingertips stroking those sensor cables, thumbs resting on his upper thighs, rubbing circles on the thinner metal as Ratchet finally nuzzled just above his pelvic armor. "And this?" he murmured, making sure to pitch his voice low so the rumble of it in his chest would transmit the vibrations along the heated panels beneath him. "Are you enjoying this, Drift?"

When he didn't get an answer, Ratchet glanced up to see Drift's eyes closed, one fist pressed to his mouth while the other knotted in the sheets. Ratchet paused to brand the sight in his memory of Drift lying beneath him so blatantly aroused that the medic could hardly believe he still hadn't opened his interface panel. The swordsmech's self-control was simultaneously enormously frustrating and sexy as hell. He looked like he was on the edge of overload already and Ratchet slid even further down the berth, gaze fixed on Drift's face as he kissed a slow path along one of those hip seams that clearly affected him so. "I said," Ratchet purred, punctuating it with a flick of his glossa over that hidden sensor bundle, "do you like this, Drift?"

Drift gave a wordless, needy cry and bit his fist, but it wasn't until Ratchet started to pull away, wary of pushing too far, that the swordsmech nodded a bit frantically. Ratchet's worry eased into satisfaction. "I like it, too," he whispered like a confession, and Drift groaned as Ratchet bent to his task again.

Drift's body was almost rigid with the effort he was putting forth to keep control. Ratchet stroked his hands up and down his thighs, over his hips, long, smooth caresses to try to soothe his tension. Drift panted and shook beneath Ratchet's hands but his thighs fell further apart, and even though Drift was still stifling his moans behind his hand, Ratchet had to admit that he was thoroughly pleased with the result. He rubbed his cheek over Drift's thigh plating, taking a moment to just watch his lover's pleasure. "So beautiful," he whispered, then pressed his open mouth to the high inside of Drift's thigh.

Drift keened behind his fist as Ratchet pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses all over his inner thighs. Ratchet's hands moved again, slipping down to curl around Drift's knees and urge them wider apart so he could settle his body between them more comfortably. "Look at me, Drift," Ratchet purred, nuzzling the swordsmech's hip. Drift's shaking increased but his optics met Ratchet's again. The vivid desire in those glowing blue depths made Ratchet's own hands tremble. Then, holding his lover's gaze, Ratchet lowered his head and pressed a single kiss to the center of his panel.

It was finally more than Drift could resist. His overheated panel retracted with a hiss and Ratchet couldn't have stopped from moaning at the sight of his interface array if his life depended on it.

He didn't even try to resist temptation. An instant after Drift's fully-pressurized spike emerged from behind its panel, Ratchet swooped down and sucked it as far into his mouth as it would go.

Drift almost shot right off the berth. _"Ratchet!"_

His hips bucked as his EM field blazed in a shocked flash of absolute ecstasy, and Ratchet moaned around his spike. Drift's silence was forgotten now–his stillness, too, as well as every last bit of his control. Ratchet braced one arm across his hips and slowly, _slowly_ pulled off, fluttering his glossa along the underside of Drift's spike the whole way. Drift panted, whining with every exvent, and Ratchet swallowed him down again.

But in the blink of an optic the projections from Drift's field flashed from overwhelmed pleasure to spark-rending distress. "Ratchet, Ratchet, no," Drift choked out, but Ratchet was already pulling away before the words even left his vocalizer.

Ratchet moved quickly up the berth and pulled Drift into his arms, holding tight. "I'm sorry," he said in the swordsmech's audial. His voice was rough and staticked with his own desire but he made sure the words were clear and backed it up with his EM projections. "I'm sorry, Drift, I should have asked first, I'm sorry."

To his very great relief, Drift clung to him instead of pushing him away. Ratchet didn't try to kiss him or caress him, just held him close, and after a few minutes he felt the speedster start to relax in his arms. "I'm sorry," Ratchet whispered again, cursing himself for pushing too hard and hoping like hell that he hadn't just screwed up his only chance with the swordsmech. "That's on the _don't like_ list. I'm sorry."

Drift laughed shakily against his chest. "Primus, Ratchet, don't apologize. I never said I didn't like it," he said hoarsely, catching Ratchet completely by surprise. "But you didn't have to… when I opened… I didn't mean…" He stopped, reset his vocalizer, tried again. "Ratchet, you don't _ever_ have to do that. Not for me."

The medic frowned at his vehemence. There was something here that he wasn't understanding, something important. He didn't want to upset Drift any more than he already was but he needed to know what he'd done wrong to avoid any other minefields. "If we both were enjoying it," Ratchet said slowly, making sure to keep his voice low and calm, "why can't we do it?"

Drift shifted in his arms and looked up at him like he was the one who wasn't making sense. "Come on, Ratchet, _no one_ likes doing that," he said as though it was an established fact. "When I… when my panel opened with you right there like that, I wasn't trying to… you didn't have to do that, I wasn't–"

Ratchet dropped a kiss on his helm crest to conceal his expression. "Actually," he interrupted, "I _do_ like doing that. I'd even go so far as to say that I _love _it."

Drift jerked in his arms and Ratchet pulled back to find the swordsmech staring at him in complete disbelief. Ratchet had to bite his glossa to keep from smiling at just how stunned that statement had made him, but he didn't want Drift to think he was laughing at him. "Why is that so shocking?" he asked gently. But when Drift still didn't seem to be able to find words, Ratchet tried a different tactic. He scowled, making sure that Drift could see the teasing glint in his optics, and said, "Oh, let me guess, you thought _the Hatchet_ would be dull and boring in the berth. Old, decrepit Ratchet, probably can't even remember what goes where without looking it up in a medical textbook–" Drift was giggling now, wrestling with him, trying to get a hand over his mouth, and Ratchet dodged with a skill learned from millennia of grappling with patients who hadn't realized the fight was over by the time they got to him– "he's so stuffy his panel's probably welded shut, and even if you got under his plating, he'd be all rusty from disuse and he'd probably fall asleep in the middle of–"

Drift was laughing hard enough to snort by this point and he finally succeeded in planting his hand firmly over Ratchet's mouth to make him stop. "Oh, stuff that slag, you idiot. Never once in all my life have I thought you'd be rusty and boring in the berth," he said, and even though Ratchet really had been joking with that… mostly… it did him good to hear it.

And the way Drift cuddled closer and stroked his shoulders as though he just couldn't help himself helped even more. Ratchet was not the kind of mech that others normally couldn't keep their hands off, and he usually didn't care, but when it came to Drift, none of his reactions were _usual._

He kissed Drift's palm and the speedster sighed as he let his hand slide away. "Then what's the problem?" Ratchet persisted when he could speak again. Normally he would never have pushed so hard, but that jolt of shocked ecstasy in Drift's EM field when he'd swallowed his spike had been one of the most amazingly sexy things he'd ever experienced. He couldn't think of anything better than giving his lover that kind of pleasure. He needed to know why Drift was denying himself something that he had even admitted that he'd liked.

But even though Drift didn't answer, a possible explanation for Drift's disbelief dawned on him and hit him right between the optics. _Drift had been a buymech._ Yes, the worst of it had been before the war, and he hadn't had to do any of those things since leaving the Decepticons, but that was the kind of thing that no mech could ever fully forget. One of the fastest and easiest ways for a buymech to satisfy their customer was a quick suck-off in an alley. To Drift, the idea that Ratchet would voluntarily do that was unthinkable, and for the medic to actively crave it was too bizarre to be believed.

Ratchet went serious, remembering what Drift had said–not _I don't want it_ but _you don't _ever_ have to do that_. "Drift," he said, cupping his cheek in one hand, "if you don't want me to do that to you, I won't. This isn't about just making your body feel good. I want you to feel good _here_ and _here_, too." He touched Drift's forehead, then his chest over his spark. "So if this doesn't make _all _of you feel good, we won't do it. But Drift… if you stopped me because you're trying to spare me, or you stopped me because you think _I_ don't like it or I'd find it shameful, believe me when I say that you couldn't be more wrong."

Drift was silent for a long time. Ratchet's body ached with arousal but he stayed still, just holding Drift and waiting for his verdict. Several times Drift's lips moved like he was about to speak but nothing came out, until finally he met Ratchet's gaze and whispered, almost too quietly to be heard, "How could you possibly like doing that to someone?"

Ratchet closed his eyes in relief that he'd guessed correctly. "I enjoy pleasing my lover," he said, arousal picking up again at the vivid memory of Drift's spike on his glossa, the way the previously nearly-silent speedster had _shouted_ his name. "Feeling how much they love what I'm doing in their EM field, hearing the sounds they make. I love the trust of it, and the taste. I love it when I look up and see them watching me with that look on their face like what I'm doing is the only thing that matters in the universe. It's… honestly, it's a power trip, too, I won't lie. Their overload belongs to me and they get it when _I _decide, not a second before." He licked his lips, mouth watering just thinking about it. "Sometimes I'm generous and let them off easy, but sometimes I'm selfish, take my time and savor it, drag it out until they can hardly move from the pleasure…"

When the medic opened his optics again, he found Drift looking at him with wide optics and jaw dropped. Ratchet shifted a little, suddenly acutely self-conscious. "What?" he said defensively, wondering if he'd said too much. Why the hell had he gone into such detail? Drift probably thought he was a complete pervert now–

"I don't think I've ever been more turned on in my life than I am right now," Drift interrupted his thoughts, and Ratchet's optics flew back to his. "Whatever else you are, Ratchet, you are _not_ boring in the berth."

That surprised a laugh out of the medic. Starting to feel a bit hopeful now that he hadn't completely messed this up, he brushed a kiss over Drift's mouth. Drift responded enthusiastically and even locked his arms around Ratchet's neck and refused to release him the first time he tried to pull away. When they finally broke apart, venting hard, Drift pressed his forehelm to Ratchet's and whispered, "I've always wondered what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that."

The thought that he was the first one to do that to Drift was enough to make Ratchet groan aloud. "And what's your verdict?" he asked because this was information he _needed._

Drift pulled back and made a show of thinking it over. He _hmm_ed and stroked his chin until Ratchet pinched him and growled impatiently, and then he grinned and said, "It was the most incredible thing I've ever felt in my entire life, Ratchet." He held Ratchet's gaze and hesitated only an instant, just long enough for the medic to see the nervousness he couldn't quite hide, before he finished in a rush. "If–if you really do want to–if you're sure–maybe we could try it again?"

Ratchet shuddered as his own spike throbbed behind its panel. "Oh Primus, Drift," he breathed, almost overwhelmed with anticipation. "I'm gonna make you so damn glad you said that."

Drift stared at him for an instant, quite obviously still stunned that Ratchet _wanted_ to do that so badly, then dragged him in for the first kiss he'd actually initiated. Ratchet went eagerly. Mouths clashing, glossas slick and hungry, the kiss spun on and on until the medic's control over his own panel started to fray at the edges. Frag, he wanted them open _now,_ but he made himself wait.

No way was he going to miss out on this.

Finally breaking away from Drift's mouth, Ratchet kissed his way down his lover's throat again. This time he knew what got a reaction from the swordsmech and he focused his attention there, frequently glancing up to see Drift's face as he made his way over his chest and abdomen. Drift didn't seem to be able to tear his gaze away from Ratchet and the closer he got to his hips, the more tense his body went. Ratchet nipped the flexible metal mesh between his abdominal plates and Drift bit his fist again, muffling a strangled little sound that Ratchet really wished he'd let out.

Well, he fully planned to make him shout again in the very near future. The lower his kisses went, the more shallow Drift's venting became, until the plating beneath his hands bypassed _warm_ and edged toward _worryingly hot._ "You're overheating. Breathe, Drift," Ratchet murmured against his stomach, medic programming that demanded he stop and let Drift cool down warring with the rest of Ratchet that would rather they both melt than stop for a single instant.

Drift sucked in a breath and let it out in a shuddering moan as he closed his eyes hard. "Can't," he gasped behind his hand, scalding air washing over Ratchet as Drift's fans and vents finally started working again, kicking into overdrive to disperse the heat. "You're too damn hot, you are fragging _unreal_, there's no air in here."

Ratchet's hands tightened on his hips at that. He knew damn well what he looked like–functional, plain, boxy standard medic build, perfectly serviceable but nothing special. Nothing to make anyone take note except for his hands. Compared to a mech like Drift, with his deadly grace and stark beauty and that sleek sportscar frame and powerful, wickedly fast engine… well, stand the two of them in a room and if anyone noticed Ratchet was even there, he'd be stunned, and he couldn't blame them. The thought that such a gorgeous mech would even look twice at him was already incredible enough, but to say something like _that_ to him, and with every appearance of actually _meaning_ it…

… well, that deserved a reward, that was what.

And Ratchet was in the perfect position to give him very, _very_ nice one.

But first, one final thing. "If you change your mind, if this isn't completely good, if you want me to stop," he said, gaze fixed on Drift's face, "promise you'll tell me. I only want to do this if _you_ want it. Promise me."

Drift's reply came in the form of a whimper, an emphatic nod, and a surge of eager anticipation from his field that was nearly strong enough to white out Ratchet's vision. Oh yes, Drift wanted this, all right. Ratchet scooted lower, slid his palms down Drift's thighs in a slow, firm caress that made the speedster bite his fist harder. "Drift," Ratchet murmured, "watch me."

"Oh Primus," Drift whispered, but he opened his eyes. Ratchet held his gaze, let him see the desire in his optics and the smile that felt a bit too hungry, and then slowly, with the utmost care, brushed a kiss over the tip of his spike. Drift whined and panted, his optics huge, and Ratchet was very pleased with the picture he made. "Are you–are you feeling generous or–or selfish today?" Drift managed, and now Ratchet _knew_ his smile was downright predatory.

"Oh, love," he purred, gaze narrowed with intent. "If I have my way, you are going to be here for a _very _long time." Drift keened, already so charged up that his biolights pulsed erratically and sparks crackled between his protoform and armor.

And then, making sure that Drift could feel his own eagerness in his field, Ratchet took his spike fully into his mouth again.

Drift made a strangled noise that didn't even sound possible. Ratchet hummed a long, low, satisfied moan of approval at the heat and taste of Drift on his glossa, knowing damn well that the vibration would feel incredible, and drew back until just the tip remained between his lips. He fluttered his glossa over the tiny slit at the end and had to grab Drift's hips to keep him from bucking hard enough to throw the medic off the berth. It was exactly the kind of reaction Ratchet had been hoping for, and he rewarded his lover by dipping his head to take him deep.

"OH!" Drift cried as his spike bumped the back of Ratchet's intake. Ratchet suckled, pulled off, teased the little slit, then did it all over again, and _fragging pit,_ he was delicious. The medic took his time on the next downstroke, glossa playing over every part of Drift's spike, tiny discharges of electricity jumping from the overheated metal to his glossa. "Oh Primus, oh _Primus_–"

Ratchet smirked to himself–no more fist-biting now, he thought victoriously–and made sure he had a good grip on Drift's hip with one hand before wrapping his other around the base of the swordsmech's spike. Drift's hands knotted in the berth coverings as his head dropped back, his optics shuttering, every last bit of his processor wrapped up in the sensations of what Ratchet was doing.

The medic pulled off, sucking hard the whole time, and Drift let out a desperate cry. "You're not watching," he said, then licked a long, slick stripe down the side of his spike.

"Can't," Drift panted through static again as Ratchet licked his way all the way around his spike. "Can't, oh Ratchet, I won't last if I do, don't want this to be over yet, _ahh_ _fragging Primus!"_

That glorious bit of blasphemy was in response to Ratchet drawing the tip back into his mouth and thoroughly exploring it with his glossa while he stroked the rest of Drift's shaft in his hand. _::Who says I have any intention of stopping after your first overload?::_ he commed the swordsmech, not wanting to stop what he was doing just to speak.

Drift's response to that was an instant overload that clearly took him completely by surprise. His body bowed on the berth, the weight of Ratchet's body over his legs the only thing keeping him from throwing himself right onto the floor as he writhed. Ratchet moaned in appreciation and swallowed him down, relishing Drift's taste and his cries of pleasure. _::So good,::_ he purred over the com, not slowing down for an instant as Drift's overload finally began to ebb. _::Oh love, you are so good.::_

Ratchet could feel it in Drift's field when the stimulation on his spike became too much, felt the ecstasy of his overload turning to discomfort, felt his disappointment that he was about to have to ask Ratchet to stop, and that last bit made the medic want to shout with triumph. Drift had gotten off and still wanted Ratchet, wanted the closeness and this intimacy. It was amazing and mind-blowing and Ratchet had been completely serious about not stopping with his first overload, so he released Drift's spike and zeroed in just below it instead.

Specifically, on Drift's anterior node, that beautiful bundle of ultra-sensitive cabling right at the front of his valve.

Drift cried out when Ratchet closed his lips over the little node, and Ratchet had to grip his hips very firmly or risk losing his place as the swordsmech very nearly thrashed on the berth.

And then, since his hands were _right there_ anyway, Ratchet slipped his fingertips into those flexion seams and stroked the sweet spots hidden there.

Any possible notion of silence or restraint was long gone now. Drift moaned, gorgeous little noises rewarding Ratchet for every flick of his glossa over his anterior node, every stroke of his fingers over his hip seams. Ratchet growled and pulled Drift closer, tilting his hips exactly how he wanted them, suckling his node and already beginning to feel those telltale little zaps of charge jumping from Drift's frame to his again. Primus, he was such a responsive lover! Ratchet redoubled his efforts, losing all track of time in his determination to thoroughly rock Drift right into orbit.

Drift was very nearly incoherent now, a steady stream of cries tumbling from his lips, heels digging into the berth, writhing beneath Ratchet as pleasure wracked his frame. He lifted Drift's hips and thrust his glossa into his valve as deep as it would go, seeking sensory nodes inside, teasing them with his glossa, then pulling away and deep-throating Drift's spike instead as his fingers took over inside his valve. "Oh Primus oh _Ratchet_ please oh please more, don't stop Ratchet don't stop oh frag oh _Ratchet please–!"_ It was without a doubt the sexiest thing Ratchet had ever heard, and he clamped one arm over Drift's wildly surging hips to hold him still and returned to his anterior node, rolling it on his glossa like an Energon candy while his fingers thrust in and out of his tight, wet valve. Drift shouted his name through a burst of static and overloaded again, valve clenching on his fingers, electricity sparking between them, and Ratchet could no longer override his own panel's cover from snapping open. Moaning at the vivid pleasure throbbing through Drift's field, he pressed his hips to the berth in search of some relief for his own aching spike.

Drift's overload passed and left the swordsmech shaking. Ratchet's arrays ached and his fans were straining and his own temperature was edging close to redline, but Ratchet was by no means done with his lover yet. Back to his spike now, sucking him deep, growling at Drift's strangled shout at the feeling of Ratchet's very hot mouth around his spike. _::One more,::_ he commed Drift as his fingers slid over his external node again, circling and flicking just like his glossa had only minutes before. _::Overload for me one more time, Drift.::_

"I can't," Drift panted, vocalizer hoarse, optics blown wide with pleasure as he watched Ratchet swallow his spike again and moan with pleasure. Drift echoed that moan and bit his lip this time–both his hands were occupied with holding a death-grip on the berth as if afraid he was going to float away. "I can't, oh Primus Ratchet your _mouth_, fragging _pit,_ oh Ratchet…"

Ratchet moaned around his spike again and savored Drift's aching cry. _::You can,::_ he told him, redoubling his efforts and wishing he had a free hand to stroke his own spike, which was weeping from the lack of attention. But oh, it was worth it to see Drift like this, splayed out before him and very nearly senseless with pleasure, that lean, gorgeous frame arching in an attempt to get closer, get _more_ of the delicious things Ratchet was doing to him. He slipped his fingers into Drift's valve again, stroked every single sensory node his fingertips could locate, rubbing his thumb over his anterior node, head bobbing as he worshiped Drift's spike with his mouth the entire time. _::You can, Drift, you can, overload for me, love, you can do it.::_

Drift's head thrashed on the berth and this time Ratchet didn't complain that he wasn't watching because it was clear that he was far beyond seeing anything. "Ratchet, Ratchet," the speedster moaned over and over as Ratchet made love to him with hands and mouth, delicate precision-forged fingers and eager, worshipful glossa. He could feel the tension building again in the swordsmech's frame, the excess charge slower to build but far more intense. By the time sparks began to fly from his plating again, Drift's cries had become almost desperate. Ratchet curled his fingers inside his valve, finding a new ridge of sensors, and Drift went over again.

Ratchet kept up the same pace all the way through Drift's overload, which didn't seem to want to release him. By the end of it, Drift was whimpering with every vent, his entire body shaking. "Ratchet," he rasped, vocalizer blown with shouting, "Ratchet, I want you inside me now, please, I need it, please Ratchet…"

He finally pulled back, Drift's spike falling free of his lips. "Anything you want," Ratchet told him as he crawled up his body, provoking a moan from the gorgeous swordsmech.

And then Drift wrapped his thighs around Ratchet's hips, pulling him down until his spike pressed against Drift's body. "All I've ever wanted was you," Drift whispered, then they were both moaning as Ratchet slowly thrust into that tight, welcoming heat.

It didn't stay slow long–Ratchet was too hot, too eager, had wanted this for far too long, and Drift urged him on with moans and gasps and raised his hips to every thrust, taking everything the medic had to give and demanding more. Ratchet groaned and buried his face against Drift's throat, his overload already tightening his frame, sending sparks to crackle between their bodies like lightning. "_Drift,_" he groaned, trying to hold it off, wanting Drift to overload again even though he knew that was probably too much to ask.

Drift cupped his face in his hands and kissed him. "This is what I want to watch," he whispered against Ratchet's mouth, and that was it.

Ratchet's overload hit him powerfully enough to white out his optics and offline his vocalizer so completely that not even static escaped. Drift clenched his already-tight valve around him and licked his chevron as Ratchet overloaded so hard that he couldn't even move, and knowing that Drift was watching only made it stronger. It seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over him, swamping his processor in ecstasy, making his spark throb and surge in his chest.

"Gorgeous," Drift whispered, and impossibly, Ratchet felt his valve contract with another small overload around his spike. It sent him even higher. "Ratchet!"

Ratchet collapsed atop Drift when it was finally over, too dazed to even worry about his weight crushing the smaller speedster. Drift stroked his back, long, smooth caresses that made him shudder at first–every part of him felt hypersensitive–but that soon became comforting, grounding him. He held Drift tight, face tucked against his neck, trying to get his processor back online after so much pleasure.

Eventually he managed it. Ratchet groaned and managed to roll off Drift so both their vents could get cool air, because his medic programming was seriously nagging him now about proper temperature ranges. "Frag me," he breathed as he collapsed onto his back instead of on top of Drift. "That was…" He couldn't even finish the sentence. He had no words for what that was.

"Yeah," Drift said, just as breathless and stunned. "Kinda wish I'd worked up the nerve to jump you a long time ago now."

Ratchet laughed and shook his head. "Same here," he said. "Same here."

Drift surprised him by reaching out and gathering him close. Ratchet went willingly, cuddling up to Drift and firmly telling his heat warnings to get stuffed. This was worth some scorched wiring. "How long will it take us to get back to the _Lost Light?_" Drift asked as his fingertips traced glyphs on Ratchet's glass chestplate, glyphs that the medic couldn't really decipher.

But he didn't ask for an explanation. If this was some spiritualist practice, he didn't want to know about it, and anyway, it felt… intriguing. "Two days, maybe three," he answered as his body impossibly started to react to Drift's caresses. "Maybe more if we take the scenic route. We've got the fuel to take us as around the Argon Nebula and back if we really want to stretch it out, but I'm sure you want to get home."

Drift's fingers never paused. "I do like a good nebula," he said thoughtfully, and Ratchet grinned at the thought of more time alone in this shuttle, just the two of them and this berth and whatever they could possibly think of to do in it. Then Drift shifted and looked over at Ratchet. "I never thought I'd ever get up the nerve to say this to you," he murmured. "But I love you, Ratchet. You know that, right?"

Ratchet's spark leapt in its casing. "I didn't know it. I didn't even let myself hope for that–the best I thought I'd get was a sword somewhere that wasn't immediately fatal," he whispered, and Drift snorted. "But it was a price I was willing to pay if I got to finally kiss you. I love you, too, you know. Have for quite a while now, actually."

Drift's entire face lit up in the most joyful smile Ratchet had ever seen. Then he bent and kissed the medic, taking his time about it, making it thorough enough to leave Ratchet breathless all over again. Oh yeah, he was a quick study, all right. "I'm so glad you came to find me," he said when he pulled away. "I'm so glad you kissed me."

Ratchet smiled and tightened his arms around him. "Me too, love."

.

… **I don't know how to write short things. *sigh***


	3. Finding Peace

The first time Drift woke up, he fought it, and not only because he was still exhausted. Waking up would mean the end of this amazing dream he'd been having. He'd dreamed of getting Ratchet in the berth before but never in such glorious detail. In this dream Ratchet had kissed him, which was something Drift rarely imagined because he knew so little about it, but those kisses had been beyond amazing even before Ratchet had scattered them all over his body. When they'd 'faced, the medic had been more concerned with Drift's pleasure than his own and oh, Drift had _drowned_ in pleasure. And it hadn't ended with just fragging. Ratchet had held him close afterward, held him like he was precious, like he _mattered,_ and Drift had not only found the courage to finally tell the medic that he loved him, Ratchet had even said it back…

No, Drift did not want to return to a world where that was just a dream, and he shifted a little, trying to quickly drop back into recharge in hopes of catching it again.

But then he went rigid when the feel of a warm body against his abruptly told him that he wasn't alone.

His panic at finding out that he was in a stranger's berth was exceeded only by the sickening dread that swamped him at the sensation between his thighs, a just-discernable ache that he hadn't felt in a very long time and had earnestly prayed that he would never experience again.

A quick self-diagnostic confirmed that the barely-there ache in his valve meant exactly what he'd feared it had. No wonder Drift had dreamed of Ratchet–fantasizing about the medic had gotten him through many unwanted encounters, but who in the pit had he fragged after so many centuries of blessed celibacy, and for the love of Primus, _why had he done it?_ Drift had sworn never, ever to defile his body that way again and he could think of nothing that would make him go back on that vow.

Unless he'd been forced… but that didn't make sense. His body only bore minor injuries and the feeling in his valve was definitely not pain, more of a slight, almost pleasant soreness. Drift apparently hadn't put up much resistance and they'd at least been gentle with him, but that left more questions than answers. The most important of those was _why hadn't he fought this?_ His self-diagnostic had found no trace of drugs in his system that could have coerced his compliance, so how the _frag_ had he gotten himself into this situation? Forcefully shutting down his battle protocols–no point in killing this mech before he could get his answers–Drift dared to open his optics just for an instant and see who was with him.

He caught a glimpse of a wide glass chestplate, one broad, strong shoulder, scuffed white plating bearing the proud red symbols of a medic–

–and he recognized the one thing in the universe that could make him willingly, _eagerly_ break his vow of celibacy.

The mech he was sprawled all over was_ Ratchet_. Reacting on instinct, Drift muted his vocalizer so he didn't wake the medic up with an entirely undignified squeak of disbelief that _it hadn't been a dream_. Luckily he managed it just in time–Drift didn't think his pride would ever recover from that.

… or had it been a dream? How did he even know he was awake now?

He squeezed his eyes shut–he'd always been a visual dreamer, and he focused on other senses now, praying with everything in him that this was true. He and Ratchet were entwined on a bunk more appropriately sized for a single mech, cuddling close the way he'd always wanted, and even more incredibly, Ratchet's arms were locked around him even in recharge as if afraid Drift would vanish if he let go for a second. His engine idled low with sleep but the tone of it was perfect, a sound Drift had memorized long ago. Even the medic's scent was right–oil and disinfectant and that indefinable smell that Drift had always associated with _safety_.

Still silenced, Drift cautiously dared to look again just to make sure. This time he shifted cautiously and glanced up. Ratchet's face, familiar to him as his own, was close enough to make him wonder if the medic had fallen asleep kissing Drift's helm. The last traces of terror left him to be replaced by a shiver of excitement as he gazed at that beloved face, lit only by the light of his own optics. Ratchet's normal scowl was softened with recharge, very nearly peaceful, but Drift frowned at the exhaustion evident in the pinched expression around his eyes and the tightness at the corners of his mouth.

… sweet holy Primus, _that mouth. _Memories made Drift shiver again, harder this time. In all the dreams and fantasies he'd had about Ratchet, and there had been many, he'd never once imagined the medic was that fragging amazing with his mouth. He could put trained pleasure-bots to shame with that glossa of his, and Drift could hardly believe that Ratchet not only _knew_ such techniques, but that he'd willingly used them on Drift.

And that he'd so very clearly _enjoyed_ doing so.

Or at least, Drift hoped he'd enjoyed it as much as he'd seemed to. It was still a bit hard for him to believe, and he would never forgive himself if anything he'd done had made Ratchet feel the shame and revulsion Drift used to feel when he'd been forced to kneel and endure having another mech's spike shoved down his throat. No, Drift hadn't asked for him to do it, Ratchet had volunteered, but that didn't mean that he hadn't felt obligated, did it? He stiffened again, his elation giving way to anxiety once more as he scrutinized his memories for any indication that the medic had been faking his willingness and pleasure.

Ratchet chose that moment to frown, optics still closed. "Drift?" he murmured, his voice crackling from a vocalizer that wasn't fully online, and the swordsmech realized with a start that he hadn't been dampening his EM field at all. He cringed–every instant of his turmoil had been bombarding the medic all this time. "You okay?"

Ratchet's field held nothing but open, affectionate concern, and that was all it took to reassure the swordsmech that everything was all right. No one who felt dirtied and used could possibly feel that much tenderness toward the one who'd done it to them. "–" Drift said, then remembered muting his vocalizer and reset it with a click. "I'm good," he said, voice a little hoarse.

Ratchet's frown deepened. That tone clearly hadn't reassured him at all. "You sure?" he pressed, raising a hand to stroke Drift's cheek.

Drift leaned into the caress. No one had ever touched him so tenderly, like he was something precious. "Couldn't possibly be better," he said softly, meaning it.

The medic's frown finally eased but didn't fully go away. Ratchet's hand slipped around to the nape of Drift's neck and pulled him firmly back down onto his chest. "Then go the frag to sleep and quit staring at me," he growled with familiar impatience, but his fingertips gently stroking beneath the edge of Drift's helm belied the annoyed tone. "We can't all be as pretty as you."

The touch and compliment combined to send a thrill through Drift's circuits. "Don't sell yourself short," he said, smiling now and likewise falling into old familiar patterns. "Surely you know that you're a very handsome mech, and your aura is nothing short of lovely. Looking at you makes me want to compose a hymn of thanks to Primus for the wonder of your exist–"

"I will offline you myself if you don't knock that slag off," Ratchet interrupted, swatting his aft and making Drift yelp, but Drift felt the warmth in his EM field and knew that his scowl was hiding laughter. Drift chuckled but didn't continue his teasing. The medic was clearly still tired and honestly, he was, too. He snuggled closer and wrapped his arms around Ratchet's waist, closing his optics with every intention of going back to recharge.

Ratchet spoke again before he could. Fingertips still stroking gently over his plating, soothing, he murmured, "You were–you were extremely upset." The question was implied, but Ratchet didn't outright ask, leaving Drift the option of whether or not to tell him why.

"I was… disoriented," he whispered, knowing that a better description would've been _terrified_ and grateful that Ratchet hadn't used it. But he didn't want Ratchet to think it was because he'd awakened with any regrets about what they'd done together, so he swallowed his embarrassment and explained. "I haven't shared a berth with anyone in a long time, haven't done it willingly… well, ever. Wasn't sure where I was or who was with me for a moment. I'm sorry I didn't think to hold back my field. I didn't mean to wake you up."

Ratchet pulled him closer and rubbed his back. "I don't care about that. Drift, we don't have to recharge together if it bothers you. I don't mind moving," he murmured, his own field going very controlled in a way that made Drift almost giddy. If Ratchet truly didn't mind moving, there would be nothing in his field for him to hide.

"Didn't say that. You're the only one I've ever wanted to recharge with like this," he said honestly, nuzzling Ratchet's chest and inwardly thrilling that he was allowed to do so. Ratchet's field relaxed in an affectionate wave and Drift met it with his own, sending the medic his adoration and happiness without bothering to modulate it. "Love you, Ratchet," he whispered, still a bit disbelieving that he could actually say it at last.

"Love you too, you pain in the aft," Ratchet replied, dropping a soft kiss atop his helm as his field went soft and warm with his own contentment, his projections mingling beautifully with Drift's. "Now _go to sleep_ or I'm gonna have to do something about you." And while that threat actually sounded pretty good to Drift, he wasn't selfish enough to keep his lover awake when he was so obviously exhausted.

"How about you do something about me when you're rested up?" Drift said, nuzzling the glass again and finishing with a soft kiss right over Ratchet's Autobot symbol. It made the medic shiver beautifully. He remembered Ratchet's teasing from before and grinned. "Because I've got plans for you and you're going to need your strength. I'd hate for you to fall asleep in the middle of them."

Ratchet chuckled as he pinched one of Drift's helm finials, although if he thought that was a punishment, the soft whir of Drift's cooling fans kicking on proved otherwise. "Pain in my aft," he grumbled again, and Drift fell asleep smiling.

The second time Drift awoke, that moment of fuzzy confusion was much shorter, and he remembered that he was with Ratchet before he even opened his optics. This time he kept his field under control and didn't stiffen or gasp, and Ratchet's EM projections didn't change from the slow, tranquil indications of deep restorative sleep. Drift lay still in his medic's arms, basking in the moment and almost overwhelmed with gratitude and joy.

But soon the proximity to Ratchet began to affect him as it always did. Drift curled his fingers into his palm, firmly telling that familiar _want-to-touch_ that Ratchet deserved his rest and it would just have to wait until the medic woke up. _Besides, I'm practically lying on top of him,_ he told himself, trying to shut down his rapidly awakening interface protocols by sheer force of will, although this position made that extremely difficult. _I'm touching him plenty right now_.

Memories of running his hands all over the medic's sturdy frame replayed in his mind, accompanied by the vivid auditory recollection of how Ratchet would gasp with pleasure when Drift would run his fingertips over certain transformation seams, or the sound of his moans muffled against Drift's own mouth as he kissed him like he could never get enough of it.

_Definitely not touching him anywhere _near _enough right now,_ his protocols insisted, and it was a point of view that Drift was having significant trouble disagreeing with.

He managed to last several more minutes before admitting defeat. If he didn't get out of this berth, he truly was going to wake Ratchet up, and much as he would like to awaken him in a very special kind of way, right now the medic really did need his rest. The last few days had been tough on both of them, but Ratchet wasn't a warrior build, and he was older than Drift. It had been harder on him.

Plus, Drift could honestly use a little time to himself. This new thing with Ratchet was beyond wonderful, and the unexpected granting of every wish he'd ever had, but it didn't mean that he wasn't still nervous as hell about returning to the _Lost Light_ or deeply disturbed by what had happened on the planet he'd just left. Looking up into Gigatron's face and being called _Deadlock_ had dug up a lot of memories he would've much rather had stayed buried.

And knowing that Ratchet was aware of his Decepticon history was one thing, but being forced to relive it right in front of him was quite another. His thoughts churned and his body felt like it belonged to a stranger. He urgently felt the need to center himself.

But it was much harder than he'd expected to slither out of Ratchet's arms without awakening him. Ratchet might've been deeply asleep, but that didn't mean he was letting go of Drift easily. Twice he almost got away only for Ratchet to grab him and haul him right back into his embrace. The medic's determination to keep hold of him made Drift's spark sing, especially when he'd thrown his leg over Drift's the second time he'd nearly gotten free and mumbled something that sounded a lot like _don't leave me_.

Drift's chest ached with so much love, he couldn't understand how one spark could hold it all. "Never," Drift whispered, giving up on his plan of sneaking away–his lover was every bit as stubborn asleep as he was awake. "Never going to leave you, Ratchet, just going into the other room so you can rest a little longer."

Ratchet grumbled in his sleep, muttering something Drift couldn't quite understand but that still managed to clearly convey that he deeply disapproved of this plan. Drift smiled at his sleepy scowl and kissed the frown-line between his brows, and Ratchet finally let the swordsmech go. Drift slid off the berth, but he turned back at the last minute, unable to resist the urge to press another kiss to the center of Ratchet's chevron.

Ratchet swatted at him, still significantly more asleep than awake, but he also shivered in an extremely satisfactory way, and Drift made himself scoop up his discarded scabbards and walk out before he let his libido convince him that maybe Ratchet wasn't really all _that_ tired.

The shuttle wasn't all that big, consisting of only a handful of defined areas–the cockpit, the berthroom, a small washracks crammed in beside the engine room, and the small cargo hold where they'd entered, which was empty save for a few smallish barrels against the far wall. Drift made quick use of the washracks–he would really have liked to have stayed in there longer, but the cleanser level gauge was broken and he didn't want to accidentally use it all before Ratchet got his turn. And maybe, if he was very, very lucky, Ratchet would let him join him when he took his shower, a thought that sent shivers through Drift's entire frame.

Trying to clear his mind of that too-tempting thought, he made his way into the hold. He retrieved his swords from the storage locker, smiling for a moment at Ratchet's admission that he'd fully expected to be stabbed with one of them for kissing Drift, and sheathed them. Then he lifted Wing's Great Sword and reverently checked it for any damage from the turbulent lift-off. Finding none, he went to the center of the hold and sank down into a cross-legged position, laying the Great Sword across his knees, and closed his optics to meditate.

Only to instantly remember that first kiss again–the shock of it, his disbelief, and how quickly it had turned into an explosively hot make-out session.

Shivering again, Drift resettled himself and tried to clear his mind. It worked for a few minutes, but this time the image that distracted him was the sight of Ratchet lying between his thighs, looking up at him with the devil's own grin and kissing the center of his interface panel, shamelessly holding his gaze the whole time.

Drift's fans kicked on as his panel started to heat up again. He vented slowly and deeply, trying not to get caught up in the memories. Acknowledging distractions and gently dismissing them, that was the way Wing had taught him, and Drift tried his best, he really did. He was even successful in his efforts for a while, but for every few minutes of calm, centered, open-minded presence in the current moment that he managed, he spent many more distracted by increasingly heated recollections of just what he and Ratchet had been doing a few hours ago.

Most of them centered on the medic's spectacularly talented mouth.

Drift caught himself licking his own lips now and opened his eyes. Wing had also taught him that sometimes sitting meditation didn't work, and that wasn't a failure. It simply meant that he needed to be present in his body, not only his mind, and there were ways of accomplishing that.

Standing in one smooth movement, Drift kissed the center stone of the Great Sword and returned it to its place on his back. Then he drew his two normal swords, centered his awareness just below his spark, and fell into the familiar opening stance of one of the longer and more advanced Metallikato sword forms. It would take all his concentration to perform it properly within this confined space, but that was exactly what Drift needed. He vented slowly, closed his eyes, and extended his awareness outward from his body's core to the corners of the room–not _looking_ at the space he occupied but _feeling_ it.

He moved.

Slowly at first, his motions almost more dance than attack, Drift's blades wove invisible patterns in the air. He became aware of his own Energon flowing within him, from the tips of his auditory flares to the bottom of his pedes. He felt his innermost Energon warm and safe around his spark. He kicked low, then high, blades weaving around his leg, feeling the flex and give of the metal mesh over his protoform, the contrasting rigidity of the plate armor above it, and the currents of the air he disturbed with his movement. Optics still offline, he concentrated on moving silently between those invisible currents, and the stirring of the air lessened even though his own motions quickened. _Less_ was better, but _none_ was best, and Drift submerged his consciousness in the effort to move more smoothly, more silently, more _perfectly_.

He only came back to himself when he felt the weight of optics upon him and caught the faint scent of fresh cleanser, but he was too well-trained to allow that to make him stop. Metallikato was more than exercise or fighting style. It was a form of worship and was therefore to be treated with proper honor. Once a form was started, it must be finished–to abandon it would show disrespect, and there was still a third of it left. Everything else would just have to wait until he completed the sacred moves.

But Ratchet did nothing to interrupt, even keeping his EM field to himself as though actively trying to keep from disturbing Drift. The respect warmed him, a brief rise of the emotion in his mind, then allowing it to slip away again. Drift didn't pause or online his optics, merely acknowledged the fact of his audience and adjusted his movements accordingly to ensure that his blades did not come too close, his kicks and punches would not harm him, that nothing he did would put that precious, beloved spark in danger.

Drift flowed with the patterns more smoothly than ever now, as though protecting his lover somehow gave him that final edge of focus he'd never found before.

When the form drew to a close, Drift crossed the blades over his chest and bowed his head in reverence. He was venting fast but his body was at peace once more, calm and familiar, and his mind was finally quiet–yes, this had been exactly what he needed. He finally sheathed his swords in one smooth motion and onlined his optics at last.

Ratchet leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, and Drift had never seen such frank admiration directed his way before. He didn't know what to say–the medic was an atheist, and right now Drift's mind was coming down from the spiritual plane. Anything he said might make Ratchet pull away, which was the last thing he wanted.

But Ratchet didn't wait for him to say anything. "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said softly, straightening and staring at Drift with awe in his optics. "You almost make me believe in Primus."

Drift started to duck his head, embarrassed, but something made him stop. He held Ratchet's gaze and smiled, and if this made Ratchet angry, well, it was still the truth. "I didn't believe in Him until I met you, but you are the one true miracle I've ever known, Ratchet. You have saved my life in every single way."

Ratchet stared at him for a second, visibly stunned by that. Then, to Drift's complete surprise, the medic coughed and looked away, as embarrassed as Drift had felt only a moment ago. "Wasn't a miracle that night in Rodion," he said gruffly. "Just Orion Pax in the right place at the right time, and me doing my job."

Drift stepped closer. "What do you think a miracle is?" he asked gently. "Orion Pax being there at the right time to bring me to you, and you being willing to expend so much effort on a worthless leaker like me when anyone else would've said it was too late and let me die–if you ask me, both those qualify as miraculous."

Ratchet looked at him again, mouth quirked in the little half-smile Drift had always secretly adored. "Trying to convert me, kid?" he asked, but without heat.

He shook his head. "Can't imagine you as a worshiper of Primus," he admitted, although he had his own theories about why the medic was so passionate in his condemnation of the gods. He privately thought Ratchet actually did believe in Primus, believed with all his spark and was _angry,_ furious with Him down to the depths of his being, because no god who allowed so much suffering to continue _deserved_ his belief.

But now was not the time to say that, if there ever would be a time for it. Now Ratchet's optics were regarding Drift with an intent expression that he had only just learned how to interpret. "I'd much rather worship you," Ratchet growled, already reaching for him.

But Drift, his reflexes razor-sharp right now, got there first.

He caught Ratchet's hands in his and kissed him hard. Ratchet groaned and responded eagerly, lips parting and welcoming his glossa inside. Drift took one step forward, then another, crowding Ratchet with his body. He didn't stop until the medic's back hit the wall, pressing his body firmly against his lover's, pinning Ratchet's hands beside his shoulders. Ratchet's field blazed with approval of his aggressiveness and Drift kissed him again just as deeply, this time drawing Ratchet's glossa into his own mouth.

And then he closed his lips around it and suckled it just like he would've done to a spike.

Ratchet gasped out an unintelligible curse, his fans switching on and bypassing half the lower-range settings. Heated air washed down Drift's body as he pushed his knee between Ratchets and kicked his pedes shoulder-width apart, then slid his thigh boldly up to rub against the medic's panel. The heat of it against his thigh armor kicked his own fans higher. Drift finally released his glossa only to turn his attention to his lover's throat. One sharp nip had Ratchet gasping, and the next made him moan aloud, field throbbing with desire.

Ratchet pushed against Drift, tugging at his hands, but Drift didn't let him go. A spike of heat rocked Ratchet's field and he tried again, pushing harder this time, and the medic was much stronger than he looked but Drift had leverage on his side and kept him pinned. The instant Ratchet knew that Drift wasn't going to release him, a shudder shook his entire body and his field went positively molten with excitement.

It was beyond intoxicating.

Ratchet ex-vented in a rush and his head dropped back to allow Drift all the access he could possibly want. "Oh _frag, _Drift, please tell me what I did to provoke this so I can do it a whole lot more," he groaned as Drift bit his way down the strong column of his throat.

Drift laughed softly against his neck as he nibbled at the medic's collar assembly, still a little damp from his turn in the washracks. He was sad that he'd missed his chance to join in but there was always next time. "You did all the work last night for me," he murmured, not lifting his head so Ratchet would feel every movement of his lips sliding over his plating. He pressed his thigh harder against Ratchet's heated panel for emphasis. "How about this morning, you let me give you a good time?"

"There's not–_ahh–_not a winner and loser in this," Ratchet panted as Drift went back to his biting, which the medic seemed to enjoy quite thoroughly. "If you think I didn't have a good time, you really weren't–_oh frag right there–_weren't paying attention."

Drift rocked his thigh against Ratchet's panel and nuzzled along the medic's strong jaw. "Oh, I know you did," he whispered, remembering the absolutely glorious expression on Ratchet's face when his overload had hit. That, more than anything else, had been what had tipped Drift over into his own fourth overload when he would've bet anything that there was no way he could possibly overload again. "But I think it'll be worth your while to try what I'm planning."

Ratchet shivered and pressed harder against Drift's thigh. "Think I already told you," he said breathlessly. "Whatever you ask for, I'm going to say yes. That didn't come with an expiration date." When Drift looked up, stunned, Ratchet smiled and gave him an outrageous wink. "Doesn't only apply to the berth, either."

The thrill that shot through Drift at that nearly undid him completely. For a long moment, all he could do was stare. Then his lips moved before his processor could stop them and Drift's deepest and most impossible wish spilled between them. "Be my conjunx endura."

He instantly regretted it. He wasn't even close to worthy of that from anyone, much less a mech like Ratchet. But Ratchet's optics flared and his smile went fierce. _"Yes,"_ he breathed before Drift could take it back. "Yes, Drift, yes!" And he dragged the speedster into his arms, lifting him entirely off the deck and spinning with him, laughing out loud as though he couldn't contain his joy.

Drift caught Ratchet's head in his hands and stared in mingled awe and disbelief at the happiness on that usually stern face. "You–you mean it," he whispered, stunned to the depths of his spark. "You really mean it, don't you?"

Ratchet squeezed him tight and kissed him soundly. "You bet your sweet aft I mean it," he growled against Drift's lips. "And you better have meant it too or I'll–"

"I meant it," Drift said quickly, feeling a jagged flash of anxiety slice through Ratchet's overjoyed EM field. His instant reassurance soothed it away. "I meant it, I definitely meant it, Ratchet, I just… I never thought you'd say yes and I can't believe you actually just _did._"

Ratchet finally put him back on his pedes and pressed their forehelms together. "Are you kidding? Of _course_ I did," he said firmly. "And I'll keep right on saying _yes_ until you believe it, you stubborn slagger. I never thought I'd get to even kiss you, and now you ask if I want to keep you forever? I may be a rusty old son of a glitch, but I know a good offer when I hear one."

"Don't talk about yourself that way," Drift snapped, poking him in the side and glaring–he hated hearing the mech he loved beyond all reason insult himself. "And let's not pretend that I'm some great catch. You're a legend, Ratchet, you could do so much better than–"

"Finish that sentence and see what happens, I fragging _dare_ you," Ratchet growled, and Drift was stunned as Ratchet's field echoed the exact same displeasure he'd felt when the medic had belittled himself. "You want to know what matters to me about your past, Drift? Yeah, you started in the gutters, so the frag what? It wasn't your choice to get dumped there by your makers, and _you clawed your way out,_" he said, his optics burning with intensity as they held Drift's. "Not one mech in a thousand manages to get free of the Dead End and _you did._ And yeah, when Megatron offered you a place, you took it. What were you supposed to do, lie down and die? When you realized that the Decepticon cause was wrong, _you changed._ You remade yourself again. Do you know how few mechs have the strength to admit they made a mistake like that, much less defy the entire Decepticon army to correct it?"

Ratchet cupped his jaw in one of those famous hands and caressed his cheek with his thumb, his voice gentling. "I don't care if anyone else can see how brave and strong you are, _I still see it._ I still admire it. If I wanted some kind of trophy mate, I'd have taken the Rite with Pharma, but I don't want some perfect, shallow berthwarmer. I want the mech I love. I want _you."_ He smiled gently at the look on Drift's face. "So tell me, how could I do better than getting exactly what I want?"

And Drift couldn't take it another minute. He grabbed Ratchet and kissed him, pouring all his love and passion and amazement and gratitude into his field. The medic moaned into his mouth and replied with his own field, overwhelming Drift in a wave of desire and adoration, all capped by so much happiness that it couldn't possibly be contained. "Love you, Ratchet," Drift gasped when he broke away, scattering kisses and little bites all over the medic's neck and shoulders. "Primus, I love you so damn much, and I can't believe how blessed I am that you said yes."

Ratchet moaned and bared his throat for Drift's attention. "Then get me to the berth so I can keep on saying yes to you," he groaned, and the swordsmech laughed as he very happily did as he was told.


End file.
